He followed them along the hallway, catching fleeting glimpses of the primitive murals that defaced its walls; struck more profoundly by the complete darkness that surrounded him. He had never even thought about what an immense, dark tomb this city was, without the artificial light and life support that the Old Empire’s technology had given it. The storm walls at the end of every alley had opened, as if in some strange, programmed ritual, letting in the chill breath of the open air, so that Carbuncle did not become uninhabitable when its systems failed—only massively inconvenient. As if someone had planned it that way.
They reached the Hall of the Winds. It was brighter here, because there were windows to let in the bleak silver light of day—although, he realized with some surprise, these windows had remained closed. He remembered suddenly being told how once only these windows remained perpetually open, so that the winds interacted with the sail-like curtains high above, making what was now simply a rather nerve-wracking passage over the city’s open access well into a trial by air.
According to the story, the Summer Queen had caused the windows to close, controlling the city’s arcane, self-perpetuating machinery in a way that no one seemed to understand. … He crossed the bridge almost without being aware that he did, for once; looking up, studying the sealed windows, and wondering.
They climbed the wide stairway on the other side, and entered what was still called the throne room, although its once-elegant decor had been usurped by rude examples of Tiamatan arts and crafts until it looked to his eye more like a village marketplace. He was always secretly surprised that he did not find live animals wandering among the visitors there.
Today, in the unexpected darkness, he felt as if he were entering a cave. It had never struck him before that this room had no natural light source. The Queen was waiting for him, sitting on the crystal throne which was the only surviving relic of Winter’s reign. He had wondered before why she had not had that single striking piece of furniture replaced with some crude native-made chair. Perhaps even she had been awed by the exquisite workmanship of its gleaming convolutions. It seemed almost beyond human design; as if it were a creation spun from ice by the forces of wind and sun.
And now, led by lamplight as he entered the shadow-hung chamber, he saw the throne illuminated by candles and oil lanterns. In the flickering light, it shone as if it held a fire of its own: the patterns of reflection flowing along its undulant surfaces reminded him of the aurora that filled the night sky of his homework). The play of light and shadow gave the anemic paleness of the Queen’s face, the whiteness of her hair, a strange, almost unearthly luminosity that his startled eyes persisted in finding sensuous. The Queen’s eyes were no color that he had ever seen before, no color that he could put a name to; they watched his approach with smoldering hostility.
He felt a moment of vertiginous uncertainty as he stopped before the throne; as he found her beautiful in spite of himself, and remembered the silent air in the Hall of Winds. What was it that Gundhalinu had been unable to resist about her, that had transformed a friend into a stranger, a hero into a traitor? For a moment, remembering Gundhalinu and seeing her before him, shining like aurora-glow, he wanted to find out for himself what it was about her, what it was she had made Gundhalinu feel; how it would feel to possess her, to be possessed by such an obsession… .
His sudden guilt and shame suffocated the images filling his mind. He drew himself up, making a perfectly controlled bow. “Lady,” he said, his voice flat.
She nodded, a barely visible acknowledgment in return. “Commander Vhanu. What is it you want now?”
“Two things,” he said harshly. “I want you to order your citizens to clear the waters around Carbuncle. And I want the city’s power restored.”
She raised her eyebrows; her expression was surprised to the point of mockery, but he saw her hands tighten over the arms of the throne, her fingers searching its convolutions. “What makes you think that I can control either of those situations, Commander?” she said softly.
He took a deep breath. “You are the leader of this world’s people, or so you claim. You ordered them out there.”
“I am ‘technically only a religious leader, with no real authority to rule,’ I believe you said, to justify yourself when you declared martial law. I spread the word among my people about the gathering of the mers, because it is a religious matter to them. They chose to make pilgrimages, to witness for themselves this marvel of the Lady’s blessing. How do you expect me to order them not to do that?”
He saw in her eyes that she did not believe anything she said, any more than he did. He had always taken her for a religious fanatic; it shocked him to realize suddenly that she was an exquisite hypocrite, mouthing religious platitudes about the Lady as an excuse to exercise secular powers to which she had no legal claim. He swore under his breath as the once solid ground beneath his convictions crumbled further. “Then you leave me no choice but to control your people for you, Lady,” he said.
But it was an empty threat. He had had to pull the force back from their task of arresting the protestors to maintain order in the paralyzed city. And there were disturbing reports that the mers were suddenly disappearing from the seas around Carbuncle.
If this went on too long, he would lose his opportunity to show the tribunal the kind of productivity and control he had been so sure he could demonstrate to them. If he could not find out how to get the city’s power functioning again, he would lose everything.
He was a rational man, not a man who liked to take risks. He had gambled on what seemed to be a sure thing; he had put his judgment, his political prowess, his honor, on the line to secure the water of life. If he failed, he would have sacrificed Gundhalinu’s trust and friendship, Gundhalinu’s distinguished career, his own career—all for nothing. All of them would be brought to ruin by this damnable enigma of a world, and its elusive, seductive Queen.
“I suppose you will tell me next that you had nothing to do with what’s happened to the city?” He gestured at the shadows around them.
“I had nothing to do with it,” she said, shaking back her long, silver-lit hair.
“They say you stopped the winds, in the Hall down below. You know things about this place that no one else does—” he thought she stiffened imperceptibly, “and how to control them.”
“I control nothing about Carbuncle,” she murmured. “Any more than you do.”
He felt his chest constrict, as her blind dart struck too close to home. “I may not control the power source for Carbuncle,” he said, “but I control far greater powers, as you know. We have weapons capable of destroying this city completely—there would be nothing left of it, do you understand me?” He thrust the words at her. “No structure, not even wreckage, no human beings left alive. A crater, filled with the sea.”
Her face flushed. “You don’t have the authority. You wouldn’t dare do such a thing. Why would you—?”
“Perhaps because you left me no alternative. Perhaps simply because I could.” His anger fed on her sudden reaction like fire on air. “But if it happens, your last thought will be that you could have prevented it from happening … that you drove me to it—” He forced his voice back under control. “A tribunal committee from Kharemough is coming here to investigate the situation that led to my removing the Chief Justice from office. There will be an inquiry, and it will involve your part in his dishonor—”
“There was no dishonor—” she began.
“—And if things continue here unchanged from how they now stand, the tribunal committee will undoubtedly back any measures I am forced to take against your people.”